


always there to remind you

by estora, taywen



Series: like a scar, indelible [1]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Gen, Low Chaos (Dishonored), M/M, Mute!Corvo - Freeform, Post-Low Chaos Ending, Pre-Slash, Relationship Negotiation, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-04-10 21:14:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4407941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estora/pseuds/estora, https://archiveofourown.org/users/taywen/pseuds/taywen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Later, after he had killed a number of people for coin, but before he killed so many that he lost count, Daud was glad he had no mark. No soulmate deserved to have his words marked on their skin.</i><br/><br/>Scenes from a soulmate!AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. always there to remind you

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [всегда напоминает тебе](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5101460) by [Gianeya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gianeya/pseuds/Gianeya)



> hello welcome to my trash bin I hope you enjoy your stay :')))
> 
> I didn't warn for graphic violence but there _is_ mention of torture it's just not... graphic? I don't think? but if you would like to give that a skip, it's in the third section!

No one can explain the marks that certain people are born with, sometimes a single word, sometimes flowing speeches, indelibly etched into a person’s skin. Natural philosophers have studied the phenomenon for years; the Abbey of the Everyman vacillates between condemning them as curses from the Outsider and exalting them as proof of a higher order from the cosmos, perhaps depending on whether the ones sitting in positions of power bear such marks themselves or not.

More people are born with the marks than not. The marks represent a bond between two (or, in rare cases, more) people, a compatibility that is soul deep. They are the first words that soulmates will utter to one another, which is how the bearers know that they are destined for one another.

Some people disagree. Among the upper classes, a “soulmate mark” isn’t remotely desirable. The odds of a treasured heir’s soulmate being someone of the same class aren’t particularly high, and most families have no desire to mingle with the lower classes. Taken further, if a ruler’s soulmate is an enemy, the results could be disastrous. If a noble child is born with a mark, it is usually obscured soon after their birth - a practice unique to the upper echelons of the Empire’s society that permanently covers the letters with ink or more extreme means if necessary.

There are various theories regarding why some people have marks and some do not. Perhaps the soulmates will never meet, be it because one will die or they simply live in different parts of the world, and thus will never exchange words, leaving nothing to be etched into the person’s skin; perhaps they don’t have a soulmate at all.

The latter is by far the more common theory.

* * *

Jessamine’s mark was obscured. It followed the curve of her collarbone, above her heart. The slender black tattoo that remained in its stead always bothered Corvo, though he never voiced his disquiet. Attitudes towards soulmate marks were more accepting in Serkonos, where the Abbey’s influence was not so strong, and the nobles not quite so prejudiced; his own mark was untouched, though few had seen it.

She met her soulmate once, during the Fugue Feast. While Jessamine’s mark was unreadable, her soulmate’s was perfectly intact. Jessamine was distraught for weeks afterward, though she had never gotten the woman’s name or made any other attempt to learn her identity, after Jessamine had confirmed that the mark was indeed the words she’d spoken upon meeting the woman.

“You’ve never met your soulmate?” Jessamine murmured one night, as Corvo dozed on his stomach. Her fingers played delicately over his back, tracing the words that were scrawled parallel to his spine.

“Never,” Corvo assured her, and turned so he could kiss her. He would meet his soulmate one day, he was certain of it, but he was in no hurry to do so. And when he did, his life would not change appreciably; he would remain Royal Protector, and Jessamine would still be the most important person in his life.

Jessamine trembled in his arms when he told her as much. “My mark- do you know what it said?”

Corvo hummed a negative, brushing a thumb over the blank mark as he pretended not to notice her dashing away tears.

“‘You’re more beautiful than I could have imagined’,” Jessamine whispered.

Corvo pulled her closer, making soothing noises as he held her because he had no idea what to say. Everything was too trite, or utterly inappropriate. How could he say  _She sounds like a wonderful person if she could see that_ when Jessamine would likely never meet her again?

* * *

“If you’re not going to confess,” Burrows says, his face pale with fury, “then I see no reason for you to keep your tongue. All we really need is a signature.”

Corvo flinches. Burrows had already ordered Sullivan to pay special attention to his mark; he doesn’t even know what remains of it at this point. Sullivan enjoys the lash and the brand, but no amount of torture will make Corvo forget the words, any more than it would can him into confessing for a crime he _hadn’t committed_.

“Don’t like that?” Burrows hisses, leaning forward. Sullivan looms nearby, next to the tray of implements he uses to ply his trade, but Corvo ignores him. “Just confess, and-”

He jerks back with a sound of disgust when Corvo spits at him, the mixture of saliva and blood splattering against his cheek.

“Fuck you,” Corvo rasps.

Burrows wipes the mess off and tosses the handkerchief aside carelessly. “Not a poor choice, as far as last words go,” he says, gesturing at Sullivan.

Corvo’s head snaps to the side with the force of the blow, and it takes several long seconds for his vision to clear.

“I’d tell you not to struggle,” Burrows adds as Sullivan grabs Corvo’s face with one massive hand. His fingers tighten, forcing Corvo’s jaw wide as the other hand raises the knife. “But if you injure yourself further in the process, I think I’d enjoy that more.”

* * *

“I’m glad you still have yours,” Jessamine said as the Tower slowly stirred to life. He had to leave soon, lest a servant catch him in her bed, but he was reluctant to do so. “That you’ll meet them someday and- and have a life with them, here in the Tower. Of course they’ll come to live here with you,” she added fiercely, glaring at him when Corvo made to protest.

He kept silent instead, lingering as long as possibly before reluctantly climbing out of bed to depart.

“... They do sound a bit pretentious, though,” Jessamine remarked, as Corvo dressed himself so he could sneak back to his own quarters and avoid gossip or, worse, a scandal. Pretentious was her understated way of calling someone an asshole. “‘I know a great deal, bodyguard’? Where does that even come from?”

Corvo snorted. “I’ll tell you when I find out.”

* * *

“I know a great deal, bodyguard,” Daud says.

Corvo flinches, unable to repress the involuntary sound that escapes him at the unlooked for words. _This murderer_ is Corvo’s soulmate? The man who killed Corvo’s Empress and threw Dunwall into turmoil and gave Emily over to the  _Pendletons_ to hide in a  _brothel_?

Months of torture, Corvo could deal with. Escaping Coldridge through rat- and corpse-infested sewers, he could stand. Struggling to communicate as the Loyalists talked over him, finding ways he could dispose of Burrows and his supporters without resorting to murder, getting betrayed for a _second time_ , Corvo could weather.

This, though. Corvo’s body shakes, from the effects of whatever Tyvian poison the Loyalists had found and from the visceral fury that suddenly flashes through him. He has never felt the lack of his voice more strongly than he has now, not when he first saw Emily again, not when he had to convince Lady Boyle to follow him to the basement, not when he wanted to confront Burrows and _demand_ some kind of reparation.

He scarcely hears the rest of Daud’s speech, barely notices when the bastard tosses his gear into the depths of the refinery. The blow that robs him of consciousness offers a welcome respite from the complete clusterfuck that Corvo’s life has become.

* * *

Emily was born without a mark. It didn’t bother her. She saw how her mother sometimes rubbed her own mark unconsciously, a wistful expression on her face, in rare moments of quiet.

“You’ll make your own happiness,” her mother told her again and again, and Emily believed her.

Corvo showed her when she asked, kneeling smoothly and stripping out of his uniform without protest, even though Emily knew it was rude to ask about his mark. She simply wanted to _understand_ what the fuss was. Nobles didn’t put stock in soulmates anyway.

Emily read his mark silently, wondering if it was rude to say it aloud. It wasn’t like Corvo would get confused and think she was his soulmate; she was pretty sure he was actually her father, though neither her mother nor Corvo himself would confirm it. It would’ve just been weird.

“So you haven’t met them yet, right? Not like Mother,” Emily asked, patting his shoulder so he would know he could put his shirt back on.

Corvo paused, his shirtsleeves halfway on. “I haven’t met them yet, no,” he agreed, not saying either way whether her mother had or not. Emily knew she had, otherwise why would she look so unhappy sometimes, except that she was yearning for her soulmate?

“Do you want to? It’s unfashionable in court.”

Corvo frowned, thinking about his answer as he did up his uniform jacket. Emily tried not to fidget impatiently; when Corvo thought like this, trying to make him hurry up just made him take longer.

“I do,” he said. “We’ll meet when we meet, and nothing I do will change that, but. I do want to meet them.”

Emily nodded thoughtfully. “But what if it changes? You’re supposed to care for your soulmate more than anything in the world.”

“You and Jessamine will always come first,” Corvo said swiftly, crouching again to sweep her into a hug. Emily snuggled into the embrace, an indulgence that Corvo rarely gave her any longer; she was getting too old, he always told her.

But Emily had seen the troubled look in his eyes when she asked that last question, and no number of hugs would make her forget it.

The mark only made them unhappy, and Emily hated to see them unhappy. Whoever Corvo’s soulmate was, whenever they decided to show up, they’d better fix this, otherwise what was the point?

* * *

“Why,” is all Emily can think to say, her voice low and lost, like a child’s. She hates it. She shouldn’t sound like that anymore; she’s the  _Empress_. She bites the inside of her cheek and looks back down at what he had written, because it’s better than watching the flicker of expressions that crosses Corvo’s face: regret, sorrow, stoic blankness.

All she can see is that word- that  _name_ : Daud. The name of the man who killed her mother and framed Corvo for the deed. The man who’s the reason why she’ll never hear Corvo’s voice again.

The man that Corvo wants her to appoint as her new Spymaster.

Silence, apart from her shuddering breaths; a moment later, the scratching of Corvo’s pen starts up again as he begins to write his reply.

 _He regrets it_ , Corvo’s messy scrawl tells her, halfway between printing and writing; if Emily wrote in such a hand, her old tutors would have thrown fits. Callista doesn’t care as much, though she does make Emily practice the flowing cursive that people expect from an Empress. _I still hate him but_ \- Emily squints, but she can’t read the next few words; they’ve been thoroughly scratched out. The reply picks up on the next line.  _I trust him. He won’t betray you_.

“How?!” Emily demands, clenching her hands into fists instead of ripping Corvo’s message off the pad of paper and tossing it into the fire. “How can you-  _how_. You said you hate him.”

Corvo meets her glare steadily, his face unreadable. She bites back further questions; she knows that Corvo’s thinking, and that he won’t be rushed. Finally, a few minutes later, he turns the pad of paper back towards him and writes three words.

Emily flinches when she reads them. “You’re sure?”

Corvo nods; he looks like he wishes what he’d written weren’t true almost more than Emily does.

“All right,” Emily says, looking back down at the words. “I’ll- I’ll do it.”

* * *

Everyone in the little village that was all Daud knew had a soulmate mark. His mother had one too, a phrase that had spanned the inside of her left forearm before she’d slashed it out with one of her sharp blades.

“You don’t need one,” she told him, when the children at school made fun of him for not having a mark. “It’s not the fairy story those ignorant children think it is.” She dabbed at his split lip, patient as he winced away from the sting of whatever concoction she was applying to the thin cut.

The other children didn’t make fun of him after that; he might have lacked a mark, but his fists were faster and stronger than theirs, even outnumbered.

* * *

“Do you have a mark?” Emily asks several months into her reign.

Daud looks instinctively to her right, expecting Corvo to be watching him with thinly-veiled disapproval at her side; the Royal Protector is absent today, however. Then he realizes that she’s asking about a soulmate mark, not the arcane symbol granted to him by the Outsider.

He doesn’t actually know if that’s any better. A soulmate mark isn’t damning in the same way, but- it’s still incredibly rude to inquire about such things. The tactless question could be attributed to Emily’s young age, but she doesn’t seem curious or guilty. Her bearing suggests that she doesn’t actually care either way.

But why ask, in that case?

“I don’t,” Daud says.

Emily nods. Her reaction is minimal enough that Daud cannot gauge it. “I don’t either. Mother did, but it was obscured after her birth. I’ve only ever seen Corvo’s.”

Daud bites back the impulse to ask what it is; it’s none of his business, and he shouldn’t care- he _doesn’t_ care, in any case.

“It’s on his back, parallel to his spine,” Emily continues; her eyes are unusually piercing today, or perhaps it’s just Daud’s imagination. “I don’t remember exactly what it said, but it was something like,” she pauses, then continues in a deeper, affected voice, “‘I know a’- a lot, or something like that, ‘bodyguard’.”

Daud forgets how to breathe, his thoughts stuttering to a halt. He is aware, distantly, of Emily Kaldwin’s detached observation of his reaction, of the sudden thundering of his pulse in his ears, of the sickening lurch of his stomach.

“You shouldn’t discuss other people’s marks,” Daud hears himself say, in a decent approximation of normality.

“Whatever. Don’t tell me what to do,” Emily says, narrowing her eyes. “You’re dismissed.” She waves a hand carelessly.

* * *

“My father,” Daud worked up the courage to ask one day, mere months before he was taken from his mother. She looked up from the herbs spread across the counter, and Daud fell silent. There was no judgement in her eyes, but he felt guilty for bringing it up all the same.

“You’re wondering if your father was my soulmate. Yes. He was,” she agreed, setting her knife down with deliberate care.

Daud looked down at his schoolwork, pretending to read even though the words on the page wouldn’t resolve into anything that made sense. All he could focus on was his mother’s quiet footsteps as she walked over to him.

“I do not regret having you,” his mother told him, crouching at his side to wrap him into an embrace that, at any other time, he might have protested. He was far too old for hugs, after all.

“But your arm,” Daud whispered into her neck, half-hoping that she wouldn’t hear him. She smelled of the bitter medicinal herbs she used to make the salves whose sales kept them fed and under shelter; he knew that she worked with poisons too, but she never did it when he was around.

“Your father had certain expectations. His customs were different from my own, and he didn’t- or perhaps he wouldn’t- understand that what I wanted was not the same thing as what he wanted.” She shrugs slightly. “I have not heard of similar matched pairs ending so disastrously; perhaps the cosmos made a mistake. In any case, it was not the fairy story either of us had been raised to believe.”

“But most of them were happy,” Daud said, unable to stop himself. Everyone he knew had parents who were soulmates; that was just how things were done in the small Serkonan village.

His mother sighed and rubbed soothing circles over his back. “They seem so. I don’t believe they are any happier or sadder than those without marks, and so many of them spend their lives waiting for their soulmate to arrive. I know it must seem impossible here, but there are plenty of people without marks, and I’m sure just as many of them are happy as matched pairs.”

When he was taken to Karnaca, he saw the truth of her words, and for the first time did not yearn for a mark.

Later, after he had killed a number of people for coin, but before he killed so many that he lost count, Daud was glad he had no mark. No soulmate deserved to have his words marked on their skin.

* * *

Daud finds himself standing in front of the door to Corvo’s quarters. He’d meant to make for his office, to file the notes that he’d brought to brief Emily with and finish up the day’s work before evening bled into true night, but his treacherous feet had brought him here instead.

The door opens before he can decide whether to knock or turn tail and go back to his office.

Corvo stands in the opening; his eyes widen briefly, then narrow as he crosses his arms. He’s only wearing his shirtsleeves and the leather gloves he adopted, Daud assumes, after taking Emily back to the Tower. The expression on his face demands an answer.

Daud licks suddenly dry lips and says, “Can I come in?”

Corvo’s suspicion only seems to grow, but he turns and walks further into the room all the same.

Daud studies his back as he follows Corvo inside, but there’s nothing to see. Emily was probably- what, pranking him? How would she even know the first thing he’d said to Corvo unless the Whalers had told her. Or Corvo himself. Either way, it didn’t seem likely.

Corvo taps his foot impatiently, drawing Daud from his thoughts. He’ll tell Corvo that Emily needs to be told not to break the taboo surrounding soulmate marks. Or make some excuse from the papers still clutched in one hand. Or-

“Your soulmate mark,” Daud says. “It’s.” His voice cracks.

Corvo stiffens.

“Show me?” Daud says, stepping closer.

Corvo shakes his head and steps back.

Daud stops and stares at Corvo, trying to read him. He’s tense, ready to react to whatever Daud decides to do next. He has no right to ask Corvo about this; but he had no right to ask for his life either.

“Please, Corvo,” Daud says.

Corvo’s hands clench, then relax. He frowns. Then he strips off his gloves and unbuttons his shirt with swift, jerky motions. Daud doesn’t look away as Corvo sheds the garment. His skin is layered with scars, some old, most recent. The old ones are from combat; the newer ones are obviously inflicted with one purpose: to cause pain.

Corvo exhales heavily and turns. The scars here are from brand and lash. He’s still gaunt from six months in Coldridge, the line of his ribs and the jut of his spine visible beneath weathered skin. What catches Daud’s eye, however, is the line of words that begins midway down Corvo’s back and stops just above his belt.

Daud recognizes his own hand, crossed in places by healing lashes. ‘Bodyguard’ has been obliterated entirely, a mess of burns and cuts all that remains of the final word.

Corvo’s breath hitches and he flinches in surprise when Daud brushes a gloved finger against the burns. The muscles in his back flex and tense when Daud pulls his hand away to strip off his glove, but relax again when Daud presses his bare fingers against the ruined skin once more. He pushes into Daud’s touch when he trails upward, following the words.

Then Corvo steps away from him, pulling his shirt back on without looking at Daud. Daud can’t bring himself to stop the other man, still reeling from- everything.

Corvo sighs when he turns back around; Daud wonders, distantly, what he sees. What kind of expression he must be wearing, what his tense posture must reveal about his state of mind. He doesn’t resist when Corvo leads him to the pair of armchairs sitting before the fireplace and pushes him down into the nearest one, taking the other for himself.

“I don’t have a mark,” Daud says, because Corvo deserves to know. He might be Corvo’s soulmate, as ludicrous as the idea is, but Corvo is not his own. As if Daud hasn’t done enough to him; he doesn’t even have a corresponding mark. Not that, he imagines, Corvo would want someone as worthless as him for a soulmate in the first place.

The look on Corvo’s face is pure exasperation, like he thinks Daud is a complete idiot. When Daud just stares at him, Corvo beckons him closer impatiently.

Daud goes warily, stopping just before Corvo’s chair. Daud winces as Corvo opens his mouth, revealing the ruin of what remains of his tongue.

Then his eyes widen, because-

It’s a strange feeling. Brief, sharp euphoria because this is something Daud had never thought he could have, and moreover that he’d convinced himself he didn’t want; crushing, overwhelming guilt and regret because in this context, everything that he’s done to Corvo, inadvertently or not, is so much worse. Combined with the weight of the earlier realization that he was Corvo’s soulmate, Daud can scarcely think straight.

“I,” Daud says, stepping back- or trying to: his legs fail him and he barely registers Corvo’s sound of alarm as he slumps to the floor. Apologies and pleas for forgiveness settle on the tip of his tongue, sitting heavy in his throat and threatening to choke him. He doesn’t deserve forgiveness, and what good is an apology now? He’s already said everything he can say on the matter, and Corvo’s already spared his life.

Corvo tenses when Daud presses his face against his thigh, but a hand settles on his head a moment later.

“I didn’t know,” Daud mutters against the fabric of Corvo’s trousers. It’s not supposed to be an excuse, or justification; he just doesn’t know what else to say.

Corvo shifts, and Daud reluctantly starts to lift his head but the slight pressure of Corvo’s hand convinces him otherwise. A shuddering breath escapes him as Corvo’s fingers begin to card through his hair, soothing enough that Daud finds himself leaning heavily against Corvo’s leg. He can hear the scratch of a pen against paper, but it’s a distant concern.

It isn’t a particularly comfortable position, his knees protesting and his neck threatening to cramp if he remains curled at Corvo’s feet for much longer, but at the same time Daud wishes, pathetically, that he could stay there forever.

Daud makes a soft sound of protest when Corvo removes his hand, and lifts his head when Corvo clears his throat.

 _I haven’t forgiven you for what you’ve done_ , Corvo’s message says. Daud wonders if, in another life, that jagged writing might have been scrawled somewhere across Daud’s skin. If Daud hadn’t fucked up so spectacularly. _I don’t know if I ever will. But I trust that you’re trying to make amends, and that you’ll do everything in your power to protect Emily_.

It’s more than someone like Daud deserves. “I am. I will,” Daud says hoarsely. His throat aches, as if he’s been shouting this whole time. He wants to tell Corvo about Delilah, but to tell him now would only seem to be a bid for attention. He wants Corvo to know so he’ll know Daud’s sincere, not because he wants acknowledgement for the whole mess with the witch.

Corvo nods and goes back to the pad of paper. _Stand up. Your knees must be sore_.

Daud stands quickly, ignoring the popping of his joints and the accompanying pain. “I’ll go,” he says, looking anywhere but at Corvo. His quarters are similar to Daud’s, though they’re a bit larger. Drawings done by Emily are scattered around the room, tacked to the wall and lying on tables; a rack for Corvo’s weapons sits in one corner. The bed occupies the other side of the space, with a single wardrobe and a stand for the sword Corvo bears every day.

Daud starts for the door, refusing to wince as blood rushes back to his feet. He hears Corvo make a sound of frustration behind him. He has the door open an inch before Corvo’s there, pushing it shut again.

He scowls at Daud and turns the lock pointedly before showing him the pad of paper again:  _wasn’t telling you to leave_. Then he quickly adds, _if you want to then go_.

“I don’t want to leave,” Daud admits, before he can think better of it. “But it’s late. I should go.”

Corvo bites his lip and writes out his reply: _W_ _e will talk about our bond. tomorrow. I sleep on the right side of the bed_. He returns Daud’s incredulous stare calmly after he finishes reading the words, then shrugs and heads for the lamp at the bedside. He extinguishes it, leaving the room in semi-darkness, lit only by the fireplace.

Daud watches him go, then stares as Corvo begins to undress. He _wants_ whatever Corvo’s willing to offer him- but what is Corvo offering him?

Corvo continues to ignore him, stripping down to his underclothes before slipping into the bed.

Daud could still gather up the papers he brought with him and go, but he doesn’t want to. Corvo doesn’t stir when he walks over to the other side of the bed and undresses, though he lets out an audible breath, almost a sigh, when Daud climbs into bed.

Daud can’t remember the last time he shared a bed with another person. The extent of his relationships in recent years were quick fucks that he basically fled once everything was done; he’d had no interest in being vulnerable enough to sleep in the same space as another person.

Corvo has his back to Daud, the blanket slipping down his shoulder just enough for the evidence of his torture to be visible in the dim light. Daud clenches his hands into fists to prevent himself from reaching out to touch the scars and turns his head forward, staring up at the ceiling.

The unease from before is back, his proximity to Corvo only making his thoughts more muddled and circular, unlike the pleasant blankness that had come over him when he’d knelt at Corvo’s feet. It doesn’t help that he knows Corvo isn’t asleep either; his breathing isn’t deep enough, not quite regular.

Corvo huffs and sits up, frowning down at Daud.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Daud admits, avoiding his eyes. The ceiling isn’t as interesting as his quarters in the Flooded District had been, but the lack of exposure to the elements is a suitable trade-off, as far as he’s concerned. He can still see Corvo shake his head out of the corner of his eye, though.

“So you don’t want me to stay,” Daud says, pushing the blankets aside. It isn’t surprising; he’d already come to the conclusion that he was worthless as a soulmate. Corvo isn’t stupid, he’d have realized it sooner or later as well. He grunts when Corvo slaps a hand against his shoulder, pressing him back against the bed.

 _Don’t go_ , Corvo mouths, or at least Daud thinks that’s what he means to say. He’ll take it, anyway.

“I’ll stay,” he hazards, and Corvo nods, relaxing slightly. He’s moved closer, the line of his thigh pressing against Daud’s shoulder. It wouldn’t take much to curl up with his head in Corvo’s lap, but Daud manages to resist the urge to do so.

“My mother,” Daud says before he has time to think better of it. Corvo looks at him, tilting his head slightly. “She and my father were soulmates. She was from one of the smaller islands. They treated bonds differently there. Much better than they do in this damn city; maybe even better than on Serkonos. When soulmates met, it wasn’t assumed that the parties would enter into a sexual relationship, or marry, or have children if that was possible. It happened more often than not, but if it didn’t, no one was looked down upon for it. Other times, soulmates had families with other people, unmarked or not. She called them ‘platonic bonds’.”

Daud hadn’t thought about that conversation for years; it was one of the last times he’d spoken with his mother, before he was taken. He’s never told anyone any of this.

Corvo hums and shifts away, but only long enough to grab the pad of paper and the pen on the bedside table.

Daud sits up as well, moving closer so that their knees press together. Corvo doesn’t acknowledge it, but neither does he move away.

 _I said we’d talk about it tomorrow_ , he writes, but his mouth quirks up when Daud glances at him.

“I just meant- I don’t expect anything from you,” Daud explains. “This is more than enough.”

 _so you don’t want more_.

Daud runs his tongue over suddenly dry lips, trying to read Corvo’s face. The other man doesn’t make it easy for him. “I thought we were talking about this tomorrow.”

Corvo narrows his eyes and quickly writes, _answer me_.

Daud’s tempted to turn away, but he knows that isn’t fair. Doing so means ignoring Corvo’s primary method of communication; while Corvo had other ways to make himself understood, it probably wouldn’t help the strange truce that had settled between them. He settles for crossing his arms as he thinks about his answer.

“I don’t know what I want,” Daud says. “I don’t want to rush into things. As long as we can acknowledge that we’re- soulmates-” the word sounds strange on his tongue, but Daud perseveres, “-then I’ll be content. I don’t want to force something that isn’t there.”

 _a platonic bond unless we decide otherwise, then_.

“Yes,” Daud says, relieved. “If that’s what you want.”

Corvo gives him an exasperated look. _if I didn’t want it, you would know_.

“True,” Daud concedes.

 _now lie down, I want to sleep_ , Corvo adds. He looks at Daud pointedly until he slips under the blanket again, then returns his paper and pen to the table and joins him.

Daud flinches when Corvo drapes an arm over his waist, but he catches Corvo’s wrist in a light grip when the man makes to pull away again. After a tense second, Corvo huffs out a breath that Daud can feel on the back of his neck and presses closer.

“I thought you slept on the right side of the bed,” Daud says, because Corvo’s basically spooning him, very much on the left side that Daud had claimed.

Corvo flails his hand in the direction of Daud’s face, covering his mouth. Daud chuckles, lifting his opposite hand to twine their fingers together and pull the offending hand away.

“Good night,” Daud says.

Corvo grumbles, but his fingers are curled just as tightly as Daud’s own.

* * *

 

\+ bonus

“So,” Daud says, clearing his throat, “I guess I should learn how to sign.” He knows that Emily and Corvo are taking lessons at the same time, so she can understand when Corvo learns how to communicate.  
  
Corvo nods.  
  
“Can you- teach me?”  
  
Corvo tilts his head, then holds up a single finger.  
  
“First lesson?” Daud guesses.  
  
Corvo nods again. Then he turns his hand over and lifts his middle finger instead.  
  
“Wow,” Daud says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aescela is writing a sequel to this, picking up where the last scene left off and detailing the progression of Corvo and Daud's relationship! it's so lovely, please go to the next story in the series to read it! <3
> 
> @blu3mila on tumblr has also done some lovely [fanart](http://blu3mila.tumblr.com/post/137229956976), please check it out as well <3


	2. where your heart lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _shut the fuck up daud, Corvo signs_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With special thanks to Aescela, who inspired us both to return to this universe with the completion of their incredible epic _of what you've done_ , the sequel to the first chapter of _always there to remind you_. This chapter is an AU from Aescela's sequel, so like Aescela's fic this also a direct follow-on from _always there to remind you_ , just taken in a different direction, hence the inconsistencies between the two stories.

It's not that he's sad or regretful or even angry that Corvo's hypothetical words are not written in his skin. He's not sure what he feels about it beyond a mixture of despair and relief, and yet he finds himself - idly or otherwise - wondering what the words upon his flesh would have said, if Corvo still had a tongue.

Presumably something like "I'm going to kill you, you fucking bastard."

No one, least of all Corvo, deserved to have his words marked on their skin - but Daud thinks he deserved nothing less than to have Corvo's fury and rage to remind him of what he did.

They did not end up speaking the next morning. By the time Daud roused, Corvo was gone - the bed empty and cold, and Daud ached lightly from losing the sensation of Corvo's arm around his waist and his warm body pressed up against his back. There was a note on the bedside table, scrawled out in Corvo's familiar script, promising a talk - or a half-spoken, half-written equivalent - would occur, but that he had some duties to take care of first. That was fine, Daud thought, more relieved - and guilty for his relief - than anything else. They'd talk later, and the wait time would give Daud a chance to quell the bone-deep shaking and the sickening guilt curdling in his gut.

Except that was a week ago, and no half-spoken, half-written discussion has occurred. It's not as though he's intentionally avoiding Corvo, of course - it's just that certain reports require his attention, and that attention requires him to leave the palace, and on the occasions he goes off in search of Corvo, Corvo is out dealing with certain reports requiring his attention, and so on and so forth.

He's not running. He's done with running away from the consequences of his actions, like the younger man he was who indiscriminately killed and ran as though he was special and fascinating and untouchable, better than the others for having the Mark of the Outsider and free from another human for not having the mark of their words.

Now his skin crawls with the absence of the words that might have stayed his hand.

"Sir?" Thomas asks, where they are crouched on a rooftop in the shadows, high above the gang activity murmuring below on the plague-ridden streets. "Are you all right?"

Daud grimaces, and realises his hand has played to his right arm, as though trying to scratch out the words Corvo might have said if his tongue hadn't been cut out, if he hadn't been tortured, if Daud had not killed the Empress.

"Fine," he replies gruffly, pulling his hand away and clenching his fist.

Thomas is unconvinced. "It's just that you've been - acting strangely this last week."

"You're right," Daud says, and Thomas somehow manages to look surprised through the mask. "I'm allergic to pointless questions."

He doesn't have to see Thomas's face to know his second is rolling his eyes.

"I'll meet you inside the brewery then, sir," Thomas suggests, voice clipped, and disappears in a rush of ash.

Daud wonders if Thomas has a soulmate mark - or if his skin, too, is clear, because of Daud's blade.

* * *

Emily does not have a soulmate mark either. Surely, Daud thinks, he hasn't killed quite that many people in this world to have robbed the young Empress of her soulmate, too, though the unproven guilt is difficult to shake off when he has already robbed her of her father's voice and her mother's life.

But he remembers himself at her age, frustrated and bitter and lonely in the schoolyard for being the only one without a mark; thinking he would be denied even the platonic bond belief his mother ascribed to. Then he’d grown and made certain choices, and thought himself better off.

It’s not the first thing he’s been painfully wrong about, and he doubts it will be the last.

 _You shouldn’t discuss other people’s marks_ , he’d said to Emily. It’s a rude thing, to ask about someone else’s mark; invasive, prying into someone else’s privacy, and some part of him wishes she’d never brought it up at all. But Corvo is his soulmate - there’s no denying this, as much as Daud and Emily and Corvo would all like to. Whether this means he and Corvo are meant to be - _intimate_ , or even breach the boundary of being considered ‘friends’, he has no idea.

Soulmates, when they meet, do not always fall in love and get married and start a family. Sometimes they fight; sometimes they are already in love with other people, and have families of their own. Sometimes the relationship is like a fire; hot and fraught before burning away, leaving nothing but ash behind. Sometimes they never meet at all, and sometimes when they do it turns out one has killed the other’s lover and kidnapped their daughter and ruined their life.

Parallels, his mother once suggested, when Daud asked why certain people are each other’s soulmates. Shared experiences. Understanding. When he received the Mark of the Outsider, who called him _special_ and gifted him powers - but before he decided he was glad another person didn’t have his words tarnishing their skin - he thought he was too unique for any other person in this world to understand him.

He’s glad he grew out of that rather arrogant phase.

“Corvo is looking for you,” Empress Emily Kaldwin tells him tersely, the next time he arrives in her office to pass along an information report. “Are you hiding from him?”

“No,” Daud lies.

“You’re lying.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“It’s plenty my business,” Emily says. “You should speak with him.”

“I haven’t learned sign-language yet.”

“What’s taking you so long?” Emily snaps.

“I’ve been busy.”

“Too busy to learn basic sign-language?”

Daud feels his jaw clench. “That’s not the point,” he says, frustrated, because he’s running out of excuses to keep avoiding Corvo, even though he promised himself he wouldn’t run any longer from the consequences of his actions.

“The point is that you’re being a coward,” Emily snaps. “I wish you weren’t Corvo’s soulmate. You don’t deserve him.”

She storms off in the manner of all ten-year-old children throwing a tantrum, but she’s right.

* * *

When they finally do end up in the same room together, it has been more than a week and Daud still hasn’t figured out what he wants to - or should - say to the man whose life he destroyed. It’s late and Daud hadn’t even expected to see Corvo this evening; he had been making vague plans to track him down tomorrow, with the intention of clearing the air, so to speak, to discuss the night they spent together and the… future, if it can be called as such.

 _I don’t know what I want_ , Daud had said, and it still holds true. He _doesn’t_ know what he wants, from Corvo, from the Outsider, from the world, from life itself, other than to stop turning things to rot and poisoning everything he touches. Corvo is as good a place to start with that desire, who watches him cautiously in silence, and keeps staring until he releases an impatient noise, urging Daud to speak when Daud remembers a moment too late that Corvo has to reach for his notepad and pen if he wants to communicate properly.

“I’m - sorry,” Daud mutters, and instinct takes over and he finds himself trying to leave. But Corvo halts him before he can transverse away in a cloud of ash, his Marked hand closing around Daud’s elbow tightly. “Corvo. Let me go.”

Corvo shakes his head, expression dark. Daud sighs, and Corvo finally lets go of his arm to grab his pen and paper.

_You promised you would stop running._

“Yeah,” Daud says.

_We never did get around to talking._

“I still don’t know what to say.”

But he finds himself moving closer, fingers playing at the hem of Corvo’s jacket, and Corvo huffs shakes his head.

_I recall agreeing on a platonic bond unless otherwise decided._

That would be great, if he knew where to start.

“If you - still had your tongue,” Daud finds himself blurting out haltingly, and Corvo scowls, unimpressed with the direction this question is taking. “What would you have said to me?”

He doesn’t need to elaborate on what he means. Corvo frowns at him again and Daud fears he’s gone too far, pried too soon in this relationship they haven’t defined beyond admitting they are soulmates, platonic or otherwise, whatever that may mean. But then Corvo grabs his notepad and scrawls something out in a rush and holds the paper out, the expression on his face both amused and bitter.

 _Why?_ Corvo writes, the sarcasm dripping heavily through the text. _You want to get a matching tattoo or something?_

Daud imagines himself taking the note to a tattoo artist and asking them to inscribe it upon his back, mirroring Corvo’s, and snorts and shakes his head. “I think we’re both a bit too old for matching soulmate marks, aren’t we?” Daud murmurs, and taps the back of Corvo’s left hand, now covered by a glove. “Besides, we already have -”

Corvo stills and so does Daud, and they stare at each other long and hard, hearts pounding and blood curdling.

It can be no coincidence, surely, that two street-rat boys from Serkonos, who arrived in Dunwall within a year of each other, who have both been Marked by the Outsider, have ended up as soulmates.

Corvo Attano at the age of sixteen won the Blade Verbena and was about to pursue a noble career in the Duke’s Royal Guard, destined to become the Empress’s Royal Protector; Daud at the age of sixteen was killing his kidnapper and setting off to Dunwall to establish himself as a paid killer and destined to become the Empress’s murderer.

Did the Outsider _know_? The leviathan is not omnipotent, he doesn’t think, but he wouldn’t put it past the smug black-eyed bastard to have known and derived his own sick pleasure from watching Daud and Corvo on their collision course for years before the day Daud destroyed Corvo’s life. He’s cryptic and unhelpful like that - instead of just coming out and telling him that Delilah was a psychopath intending to possess Emily Kaldwin, he gave Daud a name that would keep him conveniently occupied for six months until he got a lead on the same day that Corvo escaped from Coldridge.

Daud closes his eyes, and swears.

He feels Corvo’s hand tentatively touching his shoulder, and when he reopens his eyes, he finds that Corvo holding out the pad of paper before him.

 _‘I’m going to kill you, you fucking bastard_.’

Daud starts to laugh, finding himself oddly relieved, and they share a small smile.

“Poker,” Daud manages to say after the silence stretches out, and Corvo frowns at him. “I - upstairs. I thought we could play - poker.”

Corvo doesn’t need to write _why_ on his pad of paper.

Daud shrugs helplessly. “I need to start somewhere, Corvo.”

Corvo smirks and inclines his head. _Lead the way_ , he says with his eyes, and Daud thinks - maybe that half-spoken, half-written conversation can wait. Just a little longer.

* * *

Emily is no stranger to nightmares. In the months following her mother's death, she relived the event in gruesome detail nearly every night. After Corvo rescued her, the recollections became less frequent, replaced by strange visions whose specifics could only be remembered in a series of disjointed impressions: water flowing upward, whales swimming through an abyss, eyes like pitch.

When Callista asked her about her dreams the morning after, Emily always rebuffed her. She couldn't say what exactly bothered her about the dreams, but they were almost as disturbing as revisiting her mother's murder.

She hasn't dreamt of those dark eyes since she returned home, but she does tonight. They belong to a boy only a few years older than herself, yet the gulf between them seems insurmountable.

She can't remember what he said, or if he even said anything, but the sense of disquiet that follows her into consciousness is enough to drive her from her bed.

The clock nearby tells her that she slept for barely two hours. It's not even midnight yet - Corvo should still be up.

Emily pulls on a robe and steps into a pair of house shoes before heading into the hall. The guard stationed at the door twitches in surprise as it opens, then bows and murmurs a greeting that Emily returns with a regal nod.

The halls are not quite empty at this hour, guards patrolling at regular intervals and a few servants going about their duties, but the Tower is quieter at night. The path to Corvo's quarters is a familiar one, and Emily doesn't think twice about walking in when she sees a thin strip of light shining under the door.

They’re not sitting at the table, where half-empty glasses of scotch and whiskey sit amidst the strewn cards and half-smoked cigars, the dying fire creating a heady sort of smell in the room. Corvo is on the couch instead, and at first she thinks Daud's sucking Corvo off, but as she stares at the unexpected tableau she realizes that it's possibly even stranger. Daud kneels at Corvo's feet, a cushion beneath his knees, and Corvo’s hand is threading through his hair. Emily saw the girls at the Golden Cat in similar positions, but it never bothered her as it does now.

It would be less weird if Daud was actually blowing Corvo. Sex is meaningless, or so Emily's imprisonment at the Golden Cat taught her. This is much more - intimate. It reminds Emily of stolen moments she glimpsed of her mother and Corvo and it's -

Upsetting.

Daud reacts first, his eyes widening as he notices her standing frozen just inside the doorway. He vaults to his feet, the expression on his face a mixture of guilt and - embarrassment?

Corvo looks at her, confusion giving way to recognition.

"I'll go," Daud says, his voice hoarse. He disappears before Emily can say a word, which is probably for the best. She doesn't even know how to put voice to the mingled anger and betrayal she feels. She stares at the wisps of unreality he leaves behind before looking at Corvo.

He looks back, tensed, his hands gripping the arms of the chair. _Close the door_ , he signs after a moment. His face is set in his court mask, as Emily has privately dubbed it. He only looks like that when he's guarding her in public, or so she thought. Uncharitably, she thinks it's Daud's fault that Corvo’s looking at her like this.

Emily closes the door and walks forward with a confidence she doesn't feel, perching herself in the armchair opposite Corvo.

"I couldn't sleep," she says.

Corvo's face softens. _bad dream?_

"Yeah."

_want to talk about it?_

Emily shrugs and looks away, but her eyes catch on the cushion at Corvo's feet.

Corvo sighs audibly; she wonders what kind of expression she's wearing.

"Shouldn't you go after him? I mean, he's your soulmate," Emily says. Her voice comes out sharper than she intends.

Corvo leans forward, snapping his fingers impatiently when she doesn't look at him.

 _you're still the most important person in my life,_ he signs.

"So you'd stop him if he tried to kill me?"

 _he wouldn't_ , comes the immediate reply.

"But if he _did_ ," Emily says, biting back her frustration with some measure of success.

Corvo frowns. _of course I would._

Emily looks away again. A pen and a pad of paper lie on the table between them, Corvo's hand filling most of the upper sheet.

"He can't even understand signing," Emily says.

 _he's learning_.

"It's his fault you can't talk anyway!" Her voice cracks and she clenches her fists tightly, glaring through blurry eyes at her lap.

She can just see Corvo moving from this angle; his clothes rustle slightly but his steps are silent as he crossed the space between them, kneeling before her. She remains tense as he draws her into an embrace, but that doesn't deter him and, eventually, she relaxes. He smells, faintly, of smoke: Daud's fault, of course. Corvo only smoked cigars sparingly, with her mother; Daud's office, and to a lesser extent the man himself, always smells of cigarette smoke.

But beneath that he's just the same, that pine-scented aftershave her mother loved and the oil he uses to tend his various weapons and a little bit of sweat.

Emily closes her eyes. She has no wish to cry, and so she doesn't.

* * *

He wasn’t surprised that Corvo didn’t go after him last night; even if Daud wanted Corvo to (he did), he would never expect or want Corvo to put Daud above Emily. He _is_ surprised that Corvo has cornered him now, in his office, pen and paper in hand with a pre-written message that he shoves under Daud’s nose with a jerky, agitated movement. It takes Daud a moment to read the lines, first pushing Corvo’s hands down gently so that he can read the words properly, and then again to process the implication behind them.

_Emily will always come first for me._

‘Always’ is underlined three times.

That familiar guilt, curdling like sour milk in his stomach, returns.

“That wasn’t in doubt,” Daud says quietly, trying to reassure Corvo that Emily’s fears - and he can guess them well enough - are unwarranted. She shouldn’t have had to have walked in on that last night - walked in on him kneeling before Corvo, his head tilted forward into his lap and Corvo’s fingers threading through his hair.

Corvo makes an impatient noise, as though frustrated that Daud isn’t getting it. _I mean it_ , he writes, aggressively enough that the thin paper tears under the nib of his pen. _Soulmates are supposed to be the most important person in the other’s life._

Daud already took Emily’s mother. He has no intention of depriving her of her father, either. He struggles with himself for a long moment, trying to pull words together that simply aren’t forming naturally.

“If you’re asking if I expect to be the most important person in your life, I don’t,” he finally says bluntly, then holds up his hand before Corvo can write on his pad again. “And I’m fine with that.”

Corvo looks dubious.

“I spent most of my adult life believing I had no soul mate, either because they were - dead, or because I wasn’t made for one,” Daud says, and Corvo listens, still frowning. “That meant I was only supposed to look out for myself. But that’s - not true, not any longer. Emily is your first priority. That makes her mine, too.”

There is a long silence, Corvo just _staring_ at Daud. Daud shifts uneasily, wondering if he said the wrong thing, or if Corvo wants him to leave, then - Corvo’s mouth is on his, his hand at the side of Daud’s neck to urge him closer, and Daud grunts in surprise before realising that Corvo isn’t attacking him, he’s kissing him, and it feels - _right_ , like the last piece of a puzzle he didn’t know he’d been struggling to put together his entire life finally, _finally_ falling into place. He hears a small moan of approval, vaguely registering it as his own, and closes his eyes and angles his head to meet Corvo’s lips properly.

When Corvo pulls back, he has no idea how much time has passed.

“I -” Daud says, stunned and mind numb and lips aching to feel Corvo’s mouth upon his again.

Corvo clears his throat and fumbles for his pen and paper. _sorry._ _thats one of the most romantic things anyone has ever said to me._

“What sort of shit love life did you have before all this, Attano?” Daud hears himself say, then freezes, immediately horrified. “Fuck. Corvo. I -”

But instead of slapping him, or turning away, Corvo just offers a bitter smile. _Jessamine and I loved each other_ , he writes slowly, pausing between every word _. but maintaining a secret relationship with an empress comes with its own set of difficulties._

“It wasn’t that much of a secret, Corvo.”

_that’s what i told her._

Daud manages a soft chuckle. “I’m flattered you think this -” Daud gestures between the two of them, “- will be any easier.”

Corvo releases a sharp laugh. _the worst is already behind us_ , he writes - then adds, with narrowed eyes, _I hope_.

“So this platonic bond,” Daud clarifies. “We  _ are _ otherwise deciding?”

Corvo just quirks his eyebrow, a small smirk upon his mouth.

Daud suspects going in for another kiss right now would be pushing his luck, but he’d been without Corvo for more than forty years. He’s content to wait for as long as it takes.

* * *

\+ bonus

When he arrives to give his report, Emily and Corvo are in a fierce sign-language battle with each other, scowling heavily and aggressively flapping their hands. He recognises the word “the”.

“What’s going on?” Daud says.

Corvo writes, _we’re arguing about what the right sign is for slippers._ He demonstrates, then Emily scowls and signs hers.

Daud stares. “They’re both exactly the same.”

 _shut the fuck up daud_ , Corvo signs.

“Wow,” Daud says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Estora: Taywen is amazing, not just for being an incredibly talented author, but also for indulging me and letting me write fanfiction of her fanfiction, which she liked enough to help me finish it and add me as a co-author to her wonderful fic *blushes forever* Thank you, you're amazing!! <3
> 
> Taywen: I was, and still am, blown away by the talented people that want to join me in this soul mate AU sandbox. I hope everyone will enjoy Estora’s lovely contribution to the fic - I know that I loved it, and I cannot thank her enough for writing it! <3


End file.
